Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

But no longer; now greater subtlety was required. Manlius could not project force, or wealth; there was little left of either. So he decided to strike at the king’s weakest spot, his lack of cultivation. Instead of jewels he took books; instead of soldiers he took musicians; instead of a discourse to strike fear and generate submission, he prepared one of gross flattery, drawing parallels between the king and Augustus, noting the emperor’s love of learning, and how his fame grew through the praise of men of letters. Let us agree, and I will do the same for you; that was the message, and hardly a subtle one. It was the balance that was important; Manlius needed a style that would awe through its complexity and sophistication but that could still be understood.

It would be an abuse of learning, a disgusting display, a shameful exercise. To praise an emperor and receive a reward, as he had done years ago during Majorian’s brief and hopeful reign, that was one thing. Wheedling a barbarian chieftain was very different. Manlius took few of his lettered friends with him; he also took few priests, for the king was an Arian, and the last thing he wanted was some self-righteous cleric, burning with zeal to do God’s work, trying to convert him, then denouncing him when he failed. The man’s wife adhered to Rome; if she could not bring him around, a clerical harangue was unlikely to succeed either. But it could make him angry.

All this he did on Sophia’s advice; he had talked the matter over with her. “To throw away the world to preserve the purity of literary style seems foolish,” she had said severely. “You say this man has ruled with justice and firmness. That he was educated at Rome. That he is a man of moderate desires and tastes. To be cunning is no great failing in a ruler, I think. So why should he not be praised? You and your predecessors often delivered panegyrics to emperors who were distinguished only by their lusts, their violence, and their greed.”

“Those were delivered to praise the office, and encourage the man to live up to it,” Manlius said. “There is surely little comparison.”

“There is every comparison. To praise an unjust man and refrain from lauding a just one is foolish. When, also, you desire something from the just man it is doubly so. Give him his due.”

Manlius saw the wisdom of her advice, she who had always been so wise, and took his leave.

“I wish you the best of fortune, my dear,” she said with a smile. “Do not forget that in everything you do, you must stand above faction and petty interest, and tread the road of virtue.”

“Diplomacy and virtue do not make easy companions,” he commented.

“No. But that is why you were chosen. Remember all you have learned. You know what is the right, and what is not.”

He took his leave of her, and as he left, she picked up a book and began to read it. He caught one last glimpse of her through the window, sitting quietly in the courtyard, bathed in soft morning sun, her head nodding, already absorbed by the work she was studying.

ONE MORNING in early 1942, Julien insisted on a meeting with Marcel, whom in fact he saw only rarely at work, although they still met on occasion for a meal. He was a menial functionary, Marcel was in charge of the whole département. This time he insisted; went to the Préfecture first thing in the morning and waited, pacing up and down until he appeared, stumping along the corridor, battered briefcase in his hand.

“I need to talk to you,” he said as Marcel nodded to him in surprise. “It’s very important.”

“It must be,” the préfet commented as he showed him into his office. A grand room, though badly needing a new coat of paint. That would have to wait until after the war. “What is it that gets you so agitated?”

“Have you seen this?” Julien said, waving a folder in front of him.

“I don’t know. What is it?”

“A list of books. To be taken out of libraries and destroyed. ‘Degenerate literature,’ it says. Marcel, they cannot be serious about this.”

Marcel took the paper, fished his round, horn-rimmed spectacles from the top pocket of his jacket, and peered at the first page. “Hmm,” he said without much interest.

“Did you know of this?”

“Of course I did. I also remember that a similar order came through some six months ago and you did nothing about it whatsoever. Nor, it seems, did anyone else anywhere in France. So now they’ve lost patience. That’s what happens if you’re obstructive. If you’d cooperated then and put all those books in store, they would have forgotten about it. Now they want more books, and they want them pulped.”

“But look at the list!”

“Marx, Engels, Lenin, Bakunin. . . . A predictable choice, surely?”

“Keep going.”

Marcel shrugged, so Julien read for him.

“Zola. Gide. Walter Scott. Walter Scott? What in God’s name is degenerate about Walter Scott? Boring, I agree. But hardly a danger to national morale.”

“That’s committees for you,” Marcel said wearily. “If you must know, I find it completely stupid as well, though don’t quote me. But they will keep on going until it’s done, and the list will get longer and longer. So go and do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Julien was dismissed and went marching down the corridor in a rage. He could not, would not do this. This was an outrage. He remembered how he had felt, the scorn and disgust when he heard of book burnings in Germany. Such a thing could never happen in France, he had consoled himself. And now that was exactly what was happening. By direct orders of a French government.

Again, he thought of resigning, registering his protest, but then, once more, he thought of the cold, cruel man who was likely to take over his job; it was Marcel’s subtle form of blackmail to keep him in place. For he had told him several times how only his protection stopped a rabid zealot, a crusader for moral and racial purity, from occupying his position. If that was what he wanted, then go ahead and resign. Look and see what would happen. . . .

Julien again sat on the memorandum, pretended it wasn’t there, but no matter what he did he could find little comfort. A few weeks later he had to hold a meeting with the editor of a newspaper in Carpentras. It was a difficult meeting, and tried his patience. The editor was a venerable old man who had owned and run his paper for nearly forty years. Of the reporters who worked for him, two were known communists and one was a Jew. Of late, the paper had published a series of articles that were implicitly critical of the government, and that reported on the shortages of food and clothing. Julien, under strict instruction, had sent a letter warning of this, but he had paid no attention. Now he was under instruction to close the paper down.

“We cannot have this,” Marcel had said to him. “Don’t these people realize? Don’t they see that whipping up resentment and criticism does nothing at all? If the marshal cannot talk to the Germans as the leader of a unified France, he can achieve nothing.”

“Everything the paper said was true,” Julien pointed out. It was a cold day; there was no heating in Marcel’s office except for a small iron brazier that smoked badly. Julien felt asphyxiated by the fumes, and chilly in his ever more worn clothes. Even Marcel, he noted, was now badly shaved through lack of a good razor.

“It doesn’t matter if it was true or not,” Marcel snapped. “These people are making trouble unnecessarily. Sort it out.”

And Julien had summoned the editor.

“You are going to close the paper?” the man said in astonishment. “Because we pointed out what everybody knows?”

Julien looked sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were warned.”